Boundaries and Maps
by Gerec
Summary: The English Patient AU: Erik Lensherr is co-leader of the Royal Geographical Society's expedition in Egypt, their purpose to uncover ancient secrets buried in the desert sands. Charles Xavier is an Oxford Professor of Genetics and newest benefactor that arrives to join their work in the Sahara. Their's is a relationship that crosses boundaries and maps. Erik/Charles M/M.


"I don't want to die here, in the desert. I want to go back to England…I always envisioned a rather elaborate funeral. The house where I grew up. Buried in the garden with a view of the sea. Promise me you'll come back."

"I promise I'll come back for you. I'll never leave you."

X

_He arrives at the camp in the blistering midday heat, an impossible vision of cream and khaki in the middle of the endless Saharan desert. Azazel is quick to embrace the man as he hops out of the biplane and Erik can just make out the quirk of full red lips as he laughs at something his partner says, the words lost to the wind and swirling sand. He knows this man by reputation and not by sight; an Oxford Professor of Genetics with a passion for history and archaeology. Well-connected and moneyed with a beautiful new bride on his arm; benefactors and the newest members of their expedition with the Royal Geographical Society._

_He does not know yet, never realized, that he would ever grow to care for something more than his life's work. That he would find his heart, uncovering ancient secrets in the desert._

"_Hello, I'm Charles Xavier. This is my wife, Moira."_

"_Erik Lensherr."_

X

It's a four day walk from the cave to the nearest town and he carries as little food and water as possible to travel light. The trek is grueling; sweltering days under the cloudless Saharan sky and bitter nights under an ocean of stars. It's excruciating and never ending and Erik stumbles with exhaustion over hills and through valleys of shifting yellow sand.

He thinks of Charles; alone, injured and waiting for his return.

He walks. And walks and walks.

X

_Erik spots him across the bazaar, brown hair, boyish features and athletic build already memorized without conscious will or thought. The Professor's smile is blinding, blue eyes bright with delight as he hands money to the man behind the stall, taking the proffered necklace in exchange. He knows without a doubt that Xavier has paid too much; likely did not haggle over the price at all and crosses over to offer his assistance._

"_I do not care to bargain," is the other man's reply though his rebuke is softened by the smile on his lips as he holds Erik still, enraptured by his piercing gaze. "I don't need your help Mr. Lensherr, though the gesture is appreciated."_

"_I apologize, Professor Xavier, if I have offended. My social graces have become rusty with too much time in the desert."_

"_No apology necessary, my friend. Would you like to join me for a drink at the hotel? I would love to hear more about your work with the RGS."_

X

He arrives at El Taj to a contingent of British soldiers, his relief palpable at the thought of Charles' imminent rescue. They take in his ragged appearance and desperation, asking for his name and he stumbles to answer through dry, crusted lips. He tells them his friend - his English friend - is injured and is in need of immediate aid and that they must give him a vehicle and supplies but the men are slow to agree. Erik's anger spikes viciously in the face of reluctance and apathy and the soldiers grow hard and unrelenting in return. The struggle does not last more than a moment; Erik's exhaustion and despair no match for the suspicions aroused by his German sounding name and foreign accent.

X

_Charles is splayed beneath him on the bed, body warm and sated as Erik trails long fingers across his toned and unblemished skin. He maps every dip and every freckle with lips and hands, drawing imaginary rivers and charting territories as his lover looks on with a soft, indulgent smile. His skin burns for Charles' touch; his heart aches for every moment shared, secret and heavy with words unspoken._

_They come together again, full of lust and fervor and Charles is a live brand that lights Erik's essence on fire. He takes with every sharp, possessive thrust and Charles gives every piece of himself, holding nothing back as he falls and falls and falls…_

"_What do you love?" Erik asks. After._

"_Science. The ocean. Teaching. Riding horses." A slow inhale of breath. "My wife."_

"_What do you hate?"_

"_Lies." Charles sighs and presses a kiss to the hollow of Erik's throat. "What do you hate?"_

"_Ownership. To be owned by someone else. When you leave…you should forget me."_

X

He is bound in chains and tossed on a train, headed north to Benghazi and away from Charles. Every minute, every mile that passes fills him with a building, blinding rage that burns everything not 'Charles' away – compassion, morals, hope – until there is nothing but steel and hatred and pain. When he tricks the guard into taking him to the toilet at the back, there is no hesitation. When he breaks the man's neck, there is no remorse.

He escapes by jumping off the moving train.

He is hundreds of miles away from Charles with no way of getting back to his injured lover.

X

_Erik is the last to arrive at the hotel ballroom, drunk on cheap alcohol and resentment barely contained. He has spent the last hours alternating between seething anger and bruising disappointment - at the looming war and the abrupt end of their expedition, the excavation not nearly close to complete. The most important discovery of his career aborted by the blind ambitions of men a continent away._

_Worst is the knowledge that Charles is leaving Cairo; returning to England to academia and a life of the wealthy and privileged with a pretty, brilliant wife by his side. That Charles is leaving him forever, to become nothing more than the brief glimpse of a lush oasis in the desolation of Erik's lonely existence._

_The bitterness swirls in his gut and pulses through his veins, at every coy smile and every warm chuckle he witnesses and does not receive. He watches as Charles darts through the laughing, dancing crowd, navigating the crush of society's facade with ease and good humor. It makes Erik want to hurt him – to make him feel the same weight of devastation that sits so heavy on Erik that he can hardly breathe._

_He shoves Azazel's arm away and does not heed the words of warning as he follows Charles outside, away from eyes and ears and propriety and promises made to others. He yanks Charles into a dark corner, pressing him up against a stone wall until their lips are close enough to touch._

"_You're drunk, Erik." Charles places a hand on his chest and pushes against him, solid but with no real desire to create distance._

_He curls a hand behind Charles' neck, brushing the column of his throat softly with a calloused thumb. "Don't you feel anything?" he snarls, vicious and cutting. "You walk around with your charming little anecdotes about Genetics, seducing the men and sweeping the women off their feet as though nothing has happened! Does it not hurt? Does it mean nothing to you?"_

"_You think you're the only one that hurts? That feels anything? You're an idiot!"_

_Erik kisses him hard, greedy with desperation and need and drowning in despair. "You're mine, Charles," he murmurs, their lips warm and wet. "Say you belong to me."_

_Charles sighs and grabs the hand still tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck. "Erik, I…"_

_They are interrupted by a woman's voice, crisp and clear in the night sky, calling Charles' name._

_He never does get an answer._

X

He stumbles across a German camp, on his way back to Charles and trades the maps the Expedition surveyed for a ride to the cave along with gasoline for his plane. He cares nothing for what they will do with his paper treasures; he cares only to fulfill his promise to the man he loves.

He barely registers the shocking change in temperature, from the scorching desert heat to the chill of the interior as he makes his way slowly inside. He spares but a glance at the prehistoric paintings covering the walls, once a life's thrilling apex now worth absolutely nothing.

Charles is laying on his side in the dark, an arm over his shoulder the only part of him not covered by the white parachute Erik had wrapped around him to help keep him warm. His notebook is open beside the mop of brown hair, next to the flashlight that no longer works. The ashes of the fire are close by, long since burnt out.

He brushes a lock of unruly hair out of the way, caressing the face that appears peaceful in sleep. Erik kisses Charles' cold lips and lays down behind him, wrapping his arms around his lover.

X

_He is expecting Azazel to come, to help him pack up the remaining bits of camp and return to Cairo one last time before parting ways for the foreseeable future. Erik doesn't expect to see Charles' plane coming over the horizon; does not expect anyone but his lover flying it._

_He certainly doesn't expect the plane to take a steep dive towards him, only just leaping out of the way before it crashes into the sand, a blazing wreckage of heat and twisted metal. Prying pieces of the plane out of the way he is shocked to discover that Moira Xavier is the pilot though he has no idea what happened or why she flew out to meet him._

_Her head is twisted in an awkward position and Erik doesn't need to check to know that she's dead._

_The guilty sense of relief that Charles wasn't piloting the plane is short lived when he hears a pained moan coming from the passenger seat._

_He pulls Charles from the mess as gently as he can, wrapping him in the folds of a parachute to keep him still until he can check the extent of the man's injuries. Charles is in shock, face white and breathing stilted as Erik carries him slowly up the rocks and into the shelter of the cave._

_The injuries are extensive enough to be worrying – a broken wrist and ankle and possibly some ribs making it difficult for Charles to breathe. He makes a bed from blankets packed with the remaining supplies and tries to make Charles comfortable, building a fire close by and leaving water and food within reach. He leaves his notebook along with a flash light and promises to return soon with help._

"_Will you bury her, Erik? I know Moira is dead."_

"_Yes."_

"_Thank you."_

_Charles reaches for his hand and pulls him close and Erik leans forward to wrap his arms as gently as he can around his lover, holding him for as long as he dares before making his journey to the closest town._

_He takes one last long look at Charles before exiting the cave, the man's words still ringing in his ears._

"_I love you, Erik. I've always loved you."_

X

He cradles Charles in his arms and carries him out into the sunlight, still wrapped in billowing white. Erik clutches the weight of the body against him and weeps with every step and every breath and every moment.

He places Charles in the plane, pulling the buckles carefully over the folds of the silk. With a last, lingering kiss on Charles' brow he whispers, "I'm going to take you home."

The plane soars high above the wide expanse of shimmering gold and Erik does not look back, caring for nothing but keeping his promises.

X

"_The fire is gone and I'm terribly cold. I'm afraid I waste the last of the torch light on these words..._

_* "We die, we die rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have entered and swum up like rivers. Fears we've hidden in like this wretched cave…_

_"I want all this marked on my body. We are the real countries, not the boundaries drawn on maps with the names of powerful men. I know you'll come and carry me out into the palace of winds. That's all I've wanted, to walk in such a place with you, with friends. An earth without maps."_

THE END

* * *

* Excerpted directly from the ending of the movie by Anthony Minghella, based on the Michael Ondaatje novel.


End file.
